Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Orient Dolls
by xSimplyElementaryx
Summary: Long days of peace in London cause the brilliant mind of Sherlock Holmes to go numb with bordom. But right in the vicinity of 221b Baker Street, a mystery unfolds with the murder of Mr. Turner. It is up to Holmes and Watson to catch the culprit before death plages the streets of London once more.
1. Holmes's Demand

The fog was heavier today than any other. Though the sun shone brightly above, the thick clouds shielded London from its rays. Pedestrians brave enough to traverse the streets in such a condition, carried around lanterns and felt around like the blind. Those who chose a safer route for themselves called up the nearest hansom and set off. It was a recipe for some sort of disaster to happen.

In the Marylebone district of the City of Westminster, 221b Baker Street, a tall, sharp man stared out his window at the gray canvas before him with a thoughtful look on his face and a pipe in his mouth. His dear friend, Dr. John H. Watson, sat across the room before the glowing fire in a cushioned throne chair, reading the morning paper. There had been a lack of stimulating cases lately, and though that was good for the sake of London, it made the busy-body, Sherlock Holmes, anxious.

At the sound of Dr. Watson turning the page to the tribune, Holmes let out a sigh. "Watson, please, there is nothing in the Star today. The noise is for naught."

Watson looked to his friend. "But Holmes—"

"But nothing, Watson." Holmes pulled the pipe from his lips and turned his back to the window. "The only news you will possibly find in there today are petty little crimes. Nothing that will satisfy this hungry mind."

"Holmes," Watson frowned, "if you're thinking of even touching that syringe of yours, I swear I'll—"

"You'll what, Watson?" He raised his eyebrow in a challenging and playful manner. "Will you fight me? I doubt I'll even use half my strength for a sack of potatoes such as yourself."

"Holmes!"

"Calm yourself, my dear Watson. I only tease." With a long-legged stride, Holmes made his way over to the fireplace. He emptied out his pipe into flames and set it on the mantle. "If I'm not to settle back onto my bad habit, I need something to stimulate my mind. Watson, go to Barnes's bookstore on Glentworth Street and get me something to read."

"Me? Why can't you go yourself?"

Holmes let a sigh escape his lips as he sat himself down on the throne chair adjacent to the one Watson sat upon. "My dear Watson—" he began.

"Holmes, every time you begin with that, I end up having to do something which lands me in an incredibly ludicrous situation. Surely I will not be doing so this time!"

"I only ask that you go the neighboring street and get your dear old friend something to keep himself busy with. Is that such a trying task?" Holmes looked at Watson with those sharp eyes, daring the man to deny him.

Watson let out a sigh as he got up. He balanced the paper on the armrest of his chair and headed for the door. "Is there anything specific you wanted?"

"Surprise me."

After putting on his coat and hat, Watson left the flat. He continued down the stairs, out the front door, and into the foggy streets. It was like he had walked into an unfinished painting. Nothing was drawn except for his hands and the door to 221b Baker Street. Not only was getting to the bookstore going to be complete and utter Hell, but Holmes was also incredibly picky about his literature. One trip might not be enough. Watson was sure to make more than one trip to and from the bookshop before finding something that satisfied the old bookworm. Still, Holmes needed something for his brain or else he would turn back to his nasty habit and as his doctor and friend, Watson had to keep him away from the syringe.

Barnes Bookseller was located a street over from Baker Street. Only a street over and across. It could be done if he followed the sidewalk. Though, when it came to crossing to the other side, he could only hope that there was no cart speeding by.

Watson followed his feet with his eyes, going on, step by step, towards the street corner. He stopped at the corner and sighed. This was the moment of truth. If he was lucky, he could continue on living in order to get that blasted book for Holmes. Watson took in a deep breath and ran across the cobblestone road. Focusing more on his fate than his surroundings, Watson failed to see that he had indeed made it to the other sidewalk and tripped over the curb.

A woman was heard giggling nearby.

Cursing his terrible luck, he felt his cheeks get warm from the embarrassment as he got up. "Ahem, um, I—" He ran his fingers through his hair, trying desperately to calm his nerves.

"Sir, you dropped your hat." Watson could only hear the woman's voice. She spoke softly and slowly, drawing her words out ever so slightly. It was pleasant to the ears, and Watson could only imagine how beautiful she was. "Sir, are you alright?"

"Oh!" Watson blindly reached out and fondled around for his hat. He felt his hand brush up against something fabric and instinctually grabbed it. "Thank you kindly."

"It would have been wise to bring a lantern out here."

"Yes, but I was in a hurry."

"Please, be careful getting to wherever you're in a hurry to." A long, thin hand reached out from the fog and lightly touched his hand.

"T-Thank you," Watson stammered at her kindness.

There was no response from the woman. Watson only heard the footsteps of her passing by and saw the faint glow of a light of some sort floating past him. He stood there mesmerized for a moment. There was some sort of flowery aroma that followed the mystery woman. It was not the smell of any perfume he ever smelt before.

For a brief moment, Watson contemplated on following her, but it was going to be hard enough to get to Barnes's bookshop. Plus, Holmes would probably wonder where he went off to.

Drawing his focus back onto the sidewalk, Watson continued on to his destination.


	2. Woman in the Fog

Watson threw his head back in frustration. "Just my damnable luck!" he cried out.

He had arrived in one piece and now stood before Barnes Bookseller. On the door, a sign had been posted by Barnes. It read: "Closed Due to Bad Weather Conditions." Watson was so frustrated that he could just cry. All that work had been for a big kick in the teeth. He had risked his life to keep his friend off the needle, and now he would have to risk his life on the way back home, empty-handed.

"Holmes is not going to be happy at all!" Watson hung his head and turned around to head back. "What a day this has turned out to be."

On his way back, a little part of him hoped that he would run into that woman again, but of course, the whole day was filled with disappointment for him.

As he arrived home, after climbing up the stairs to the flat, he was immediately greeted by his friend, who waited impatiently in his armchair. "Watson, what took you so long? Was the fog really that much of a hindrance?"

"Do you need to ask, Holmes? Be serious! The fog outside is so thick that even if I had carried a lamp with me, I would still be blind!"

"No need to snap, old chum. What did you find for me?"

Watson hung up his coat and hat before going over to his chair and sitting down. "Nothing, absolutely nothing. Barnes closed shop today because of the blasted fog."

"I see." Holmes observed Watson for a short moment with those sharp, narrow eyes. "What caused you to fall over?"

"What?"

"There is rubble stuck to your pant legs, and there are scuff marks on your hands. Your hat also has a bit of dirt on it. You must have taken a mighty fall to prompt you to catch yourself without holding onto your hat."

"Oh, I tripped over the curb as I was heading to Barnes's." Watson rubbed his hands, just now noticing how much they stung.

Holmes folded his hands in front of his face in that curious manner as he raised his eyebrow. "Did you meet a woman too?"

Watson suddenly turned to his friend, looking incredibly shocked. "How—?"

"Your pupils are just a bit dilated, which means you must have been doing some sort of narcotic, or you met a sensational woman on your perilous journey."

"Well, I didn't actually meet her." The embarrassment crept back onto his cheeks. "Because of the fog, I could only hear her voice."

Holmes gave Watson his full attention now. It could have been because there was nothing else for his mind, but he was intrigued. "Her voice? This is much like how a bird is attracted to it mate's call. Rather fascinating since it is usually the females who are attracted to the songs."

"Holmes!"

"But that is beside the point. What was a woman doing out there in the fog?"

"Far beyond me. I hadn't the nerve to ask her."

"Too infatuated with her voice?"

"Holmes…!" Watson remarked in a warning tone.

"You really have no sense of humour today, do you? It's a shame really, but so be it. What did this woman sound like?"

"How am I supposed to describe that to you? You're the one who pays that close of attention to that sort of detail. I can only say that she sounded very kind and genteel."

"Did she sound British?"

"Yes."

"Did she sound like anyone we know?"

"She didn't sound like anyone I know."

Holmes hummed in thought. "Interesting, why would someone be wondering around in the fog like that? Since you say that her voice is unfamiliar to you, she must be a new tenant in one of the flats nearby. Watson, I think once the fog clears up, we should observe this new neighbor of ours."

"A normal person would say 'greet' and would show up with a gift, not a magnifying glass, but seeing as you are not a normal person, saying this is rather moot…"

Holmes got up from his chair and returned to his post before the window. "Ah, my dear Watson, how your reactions to my nature amuse me so."


	3. Brilliant Minds

The next morning, only a slight fog hung over London. It was the type of murky weather the people of London were used to. Unlike the day before, the streets were bustling with citizens who, because of the previous weather, had put off their errands for the day.

Watson sat at the table with a home cooked meal in front of him, ready to be eaten, but first, the paper. He took a sip of the tea Missus Hudson had prepared for him and Holmes before unfolding the daily rag. What he saw on the cover startled him to the point where he almost choked on his tea.

As Watson sputtered, Holmes walked out of his room. "Dear boy, have the events that occurred the other day gotten you so upset that you forgotten how to eat?"

"Ah—no!" Watson coughed and thumped his chest with his closed hand. He held out the paper with his other. "Holmes, look!"

Holmes took the paper and held it out at arm's length to better see the article. As he read, a glimmer of excitement and curiosity shone in his eyes. "My dear Watson! What a discovery!"

"You must be having a laugh, Holmes! Mister Turner was found dead last evening! He only lives a street away! This is serious!"

"Of course, this matter is very serious, and quiet fascinating as well!"

"Holmes, my god, how callous can you be?!"

Holmes waved his hand dismissively at Watson and continued to read the paper. "It is said that he died of a poisonous insect bite, and that there have been quite a few cases of this throughout all of London. Citizens are to be careful while venturing outside." Holmes folded the paper over and stared off into the distance as he thought. "Strange, to my knowledge there are no insects with a poison potent enough to kill a full grown man and certainly none here in London."

"There have been cases where people have gotten terribly sick," Watson noted.

"Yes, but terribly sick is not dead, and realistically, a person, if they were terribly sick, would consult in a doctor. Hm, what say you, Watson? How long does it take for someone to die from the bite of the infamous black widow spider?"

"Anywhere from a week to a month, but the man would have been living in serious pain. He would be paralyzed, hardly able to move the limb where he had gotten the bite. Only a mental patient would go that long without getting some sort of treatment!"

Holmes put the paper down on the table and raised a thoughtful finger as he looked his old friend in the eyes. "My point exactly, Watson! Many insect bites are not fatal if treated properly. Many also don't go unnoticed. I believe that this man was not killed by an insect."

"What are you saying, Holmes? He was murdered? But why would anyone want to murder Mister Turner? He wasn't the most sociable of creatures, but that's no reason to kill a man."

Holmes straightened out and crossed his arms. "Watson, that woman you coincidentally met yesterday, are you absolutely positive that she was just simply walking?"

"How am I supposed to know that? I only heard her voice. I don't even know what she—"

"My point exactly, Watson! You could have very well let the murderer slip by before your very eyes!"

There was a pained expression on Watson's face. Every second that he thought about it, the more the guilt sank in. It could have been his fault that Mister Turner was killed. "Oh, Holmes! I'm an accessory to murder! What am I to do!"

"Calm yourself, Watson. Let us go investigate."

"Mister Turner's flat?"

"No, my dear boy, we will go to the streets where you ran into that lovely woman."

"But why?"

"The policemen have already most likely ruined the crime scene. What we find there will be of minimal use. Since it is still morning, people have yet to finish their breakfast. No one has likely been out on the pavement yet. Thus our chances of gaining some evidence there are quite the more probable."

"But of course, Holmes!"

The two men slipped into their coats and went outside. It was a chilly day, and moist due to the fog. The combination of both made for one long morning. Holmes was likely to spend most of the time investigating. Watson shivered a bit. He would just have to endure the torment for the time being.

It was a short stroll to the corner where Watson made a fool of himself in front of a woman. The curb was in front of a shady pub called the Golden Lion, the watering hole for thugs and hoodlums around the Marylebone district. Watson thought little about it, and it could be possible that the woman came from there, but why would a sweet woman go to such a place?

"Watson, I noticed that you have been staring at the pub for a while now, and you are correct. That woman might have frequented the Golden Lion, but you know that no one in there will talk to us. We shall search the streets first, and then go to the pub."

"But Holmes—"

"You may be thinking why a woman so 'polite and genteel' would frequent a pub such as the Golden Lion. I will remind you, Watson, that you simply heard her voice. Have you never been taught not to judge a book by its cover? Or more fitting, by its song?"

"I just cannot picture that voice among those at the Golden Lion!"

"For god's sake, Watson, that woman could have very likely been a man, for all you know." Holmes knelt down onto one knee and stared intently at the pavement. He placed his hand against the cement and ran it back and forth, as if searching for something out of place. "Hm, it seems that this woman left no visible trace." He reached into his coat and took out his magnifying glass. "But look here, Watson! There is a very slight trace of footprints on the sidewalk. They look to be about a size 6 or 6 and a half. The texture on the soles have left an almost smooth imprint, but with the finest imperfections as if they were made from cotton or some sort of fabric."

"Where do they lead to, Holmes?"

"To? I assume they lead _to_ the Turner residence, but more curiously is where they lead _from, _and that would be the little shop yonder." Holmes got up and gestured down the street.

Watson nodded, having no idea which shop Holmes had pointed at. He simply trusted Holmes and his observation and followed him. Next to the quaint little hat shop was an Oriental shop with the words "Blooming Phoenix" painted in gold on a sign above the door. Watson had never seen the place before. It must have replaced the flower shop that had closed down a few days ago.

Without hesitation, Holmes opened the door and walked into the Blooming Phoenix. A strong aroma hung in the air. It came from the many different types of incense that were burning.

"Welcome, gentlemen," an slender, exotic woman about 20 years of age, greeted the two men from behind the counter. Though her narrow eyes and oval face showed a woman of Orient descent, she had no accent when she spoke. Her dark hair was pulled back and tied in a waist-length braid, and she wore a long, silk Oriental dress. Between her teeth she clamped a long thin pipe. The mouth piece and bowl were made from silver with elegant engravings of flowers and a bird on the bowl, and the thin shaft was crafted from a piece of black lacquered wood. The smell of the incense suppressed the smell of the tobacco she smoked.

Watson looked at her carefully, had she been the woman he bumped into? Their voices sounded eerily similar, she was also very beautiful like he had expected, and the incense smelt like the mystery woman.

"Good morning, Miss." Holmes took off his top hat in respect and offered her a warm and charming smile. Holmes put on that smile for every woman he came across, every woman he was about to deceive. "I was wondering if you could lend me a bit of your time."

"Absolutely, I would love to be of assistance." Her chocolate brown eyes gleamed with curiosity.

"I assume that, from the papers, you have heard the news of the man down the street who was found yesterday evening."

The woman smiled and leaned her elbow on the counter, resting her chin on her hand. "And you wish to know if I was out and about?" she answered as if she knew the very reason why Holmes and Watson were there. "I would like nothing better to tell you gentlemen that I know who the culprit is and stop your pursuit, but unfortunately, I was here all morning and through the night yesterday. As a businesswoman, I cannot leave this counter until closing time. My customers can attest to that."

"Do you remember who your customers were?"

"I have neither a photographic nor an eidetic memory, in fact, my memory is quite bad, but I can tell you that Barnes the bookseller was here for much of the day."

Watson frowned. That blasted Barnes was only across the pavement from his shop, and could have opened it, saving Watson from his fruitless voyage. After little thought, Watson concluded that it was not the weather stopping Barnes from opening his shop, but the Orient woman. Watson shivered as he thought back of wandering out in the cold on his journey.

"Oh my, how rude of me!" The woman noticed the shiver and gestured the two men over to a set of stools at the counter. "Please sit down and I'll brew you some fresh tea. It must be freezing out there."

"Thank you, you are too kind," Watson immediately expressed his gratitude to the woman.

"Of course." She turned around and lit a small fire under a hotplate and set a cast-iron kettle on top of it. "Do you men smoke?"

"Yes, ma'am," Watson answered.

Holmes said nothing as he sat down next to Watson. He simply watched the woman with his hands folded before his face.

The woman took out a round fan, and fanned the fire with it. With her free hand, she reached for a round tin of tea on the shelf next to her. "Then this _lapsang souchong_ tea shouldn't bother you the least. You may even appreciate the smoky flavour."

"I would appreciate anything as long as it could warm my body," Watson said.

The woman let out a small laugh as she took a handful of tea leaves and tossed them in the kettle. "I would suspect so."

"Miss," Watson began.

"Please, my customers call me Zhilan."

"Ahem, Zhilan, if you don't mind me asking, you are from the Orient, correct? Then why do you not have an accent?"

"But I do." She turned away from the kettle and smiled. "I have a British accent."

Watson looked at her desperately. Holmes was enough to handle with his constant teasing and back sass.

"Only kidding, Sir." She seemed content with his reaction. "I was brought here when I was very young and raised here. Language is something you learn, not something you are born with. I could be of African descent and speak Mandarin. It is all about how you are raised."

"Are you the first generation living in Britain?" Holmes finally spoke up.

"Yes," she replied curtly. With that, she turned around, took the kettle from the burner, and poured the tea into two teacups. She set them before the two men. "Be careful, it is still very hot."

"How much do we owe you?" Watson asked.

"No charge." She leaned back on the back counter and inhaled deeply, taking a lungful of smoke. She then exhaled, letting out a thick cloud. "I'm feeling rather generous today."

"Zhilan," Holmes spoke again, "Mister Turner was killed by a poisonous insect bite. Do you know of any insect that could kill a man either painlessly in weeks or painfully in minutes?"

Zhilan stared at Holmes with a stoic look on her face. The look was unreadable, as well as a bit unnerving. She finally let out a sigh as she closed her eyes and took the pipe from her lips. "You must be a detective of some sort. Asking all these questions cannot just be to satisfy your thirst for answers."

"It is possible either way."

Zhilan stared at Holmes with eyes that reminded Holmes of himself when he was in deep concentration. Zhilan finally smiled again. "You think I'm lying, don't you, Mister Detective? You think I know something."

"Do you?"

"I said so before. I do not. If you don't believe me, consult my customers." Zhilan paused and narrowed her eyes in thought. "But if you really have doubts of his death, I can help you. I'm an apothecary, and I can tell you what insect killed him."

"Can you not think of anything with the description I gave you?"

"I could guess, but wouldn't you rather me be correct?"

"Are there many insects that can kill a full grown man painlessly over a long period of time or in a few minutes?"

Zhilan laughed lyrically as she leaned over the counter, staring at Holmes through her long eyelashes. "Just like humans, insects don't always follow a set template. There are always exceptions, and I like to take those exceptions in consideration. Unless you have some sort of reason to hurry me."

"From your deduction, I can assume that you already know that Mister Turner was not killed by an insect. Why else would two detectives be here, correct?"

"Of course."

"Then you _know _why we are in such a hurry to catch this ruffian. How many more innocent citizens must die before realization strikes?"

"You're being a touch preachy, but I'll play your little game. The only insect that comes close is the mosquito."

"What?" Watson looked surprised. "But those insects aren't poisonous, and they only feed on a small amount of our blood."

Zhilan turned to Watson with shimmering eyes. Her excitement came from sharing her knowledge. "Oh, but these creatures use neither poison, nor stinging to conquer the right of man! These small fiends attack with something much more dangerous!"

Holmes observed the young woman curiously. His fingers stroked his chin, and his eyes narrowed in wonder. He too seemed excited.

"What in blazes are you talking about?" Watson narrowed his eyes in confusion.

"My dear detective, I speak of biological warfare. I speak of malaria!"

"Malaria?!"

"How brilliant!" Holmes exclaimed. "Malaria or marsh fever, Watson, is a disease that is said to be caused by mosquitoes. As a doctor, I assume you know the symptoms?"

"Yes, headache, fever, nausea, coughing, and pain in the muscles. In many cases, it is almost identical to a bad case of the flu. For many experienced doctors, the difference between malaria and the flu are near to impossible to judge."

"Exactly, detective," Zhilan continued. "Because malaria is not all that common anymore, and because the flu and malaria are so similar, people who get malaria are often treated for the flu. In the rare case where someone does have malaria, they will most certainly die."

"How long would you say, Watson?" Holmes asked.

"A bad case of Malaria could take maybe a week to take someone's life," Watson said.

"With a lack of nutrients and a weak immune system," Zhilan added, "I give malaria only an hour to a day to claim its victim."

"Even upon death, the victim would still be under the impression that he had contracted the flu." Holmes scratched his chin in thought. "Miss Zhilan, what a brilliant mind you have!"

She let out a jolly laugh. "I only know what others teach me, Mister Detective. It is not my knowledge I demonstrate, but that of my superiors."

"Watson, let us be off!" Holmes got up from his seat and strode out the door.

Watson, surprised from Holmes's quick departure, nearly spilt his tea as he bolted up. He gave Zhilan a hurried "thank you" before rushing off after Holmes. "Holmes! Where are you off to in such a hurry?"

"Watson, we are going to find out what really happened to Mister Turner."

"Ah— but I thought you said Zhilan was brilliant!"

"Oh, but she is. In fact, judging on first impressions, she is one of the most brilliant people I've ever met, other than myself, of course, but that is far beyond the point. As I said before, Mister Tuner was not killed by an insect."

"Then what was your purpose, asking Zhilan to tell you what insect killed him?"

"My dear Watson, please at least try to keep up. Upon striking a casual conversation about what she believed happened, I can determine whether she should be considered a suspect or not. whether she should be considered a suspect or not. If it so happens that she knows something only the killer would, then we have a formidable suspect."

"Well?"

"Like I said before, she's brilliant, and being a brilliant mind…she failed to fall in my trap." Holmes crossed his arms with a curt breath through his nose. "It is curious how a woman can be so intuitive. But as all killers are…"

"You are serious, Holmes! You are actually serious! You think Zhilan has something to do with this. Holmes, this is too much! You actually think that innocent young woman has killed someone!"

"Calm down, Watson. I never said such a thing. I am merely thinking of the possibilities. Now if you are done accusing me of such primitive deeds, we shall go to Mister. Turner's place." Holmes paused. "That is, of course, if Inspector Lestrade is not there to hinder our sleuthing."


	4. The Plot Thickens

Holmes, with his long-legged stride, carried himself briskly to Marylebone Street, to the Turner residence. Watson struggled to keep up with his gaunt colleague, hobbling along the sidewalk and asking Holmes why he was in such a hurry. But Watson received no reply, save for, "Be patient, old chum. We'll be there shortly."

When they arrived at the Turner residence, Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard, a narrowed-eye, rat-like man, was locking up the flat.

"Good morning, Inspector," said Holmes. "I would hate to ask you to let us into Mister Turner's flat since you have just gone and locked the door, but this matter is of dire importance."

"'Dire importance'? What business do you have here?" Lestrade replied with a sneer. "We've cleared the place of all the evidence, and the body is at the morgue. There's no reason why you should be here."

"As I said, Inspector, it is of dire importance."

"And as I said, there is no reason for you to be here."

"But Inspector Lestrade," pleaded Watson, "London could be in danger!"

"What the devil are you talking about?"

Holmes let out an exasperated sigh and pinched the bridge of his nose. "Watson, there is no purpose for you to try and reason with this..." He paused, as if trying to think of a word he could use that was the least insulting. "This imbecile."

Lestrade clamped his mouth shut and grumbled through his teeth. "This imbecile, as you so thoughtfully put it, has the power to put the likes of you behind bars for constantly interfering with police work."

"If that really were a threat, then you would have gone through with it years ago. I did not just become a hindrance this morning."

Lestrade grumbled to himself and shook his head in disbelief as he unlocked the door to the Turner residence. He warned the men that they were to tread lightly, or they would have Hell to pay later on. With a dismissive wave, Holmes brushed past Lestrade.

Mister Turner was a clean man, keeping his flat organized down to his trash. But he was also a normal man. Normal in the sense that there was really nothing that really stood out about him. He kept to himself most of the time, and the only reason Watson and Holmes were aquatinted with him was because he frequented Barnes Bookseller. Holmes took in his surroundings, his eyes grazing over every nook and cranny of the beige-coloured living room and dining corner.

"According to Lestrade," said Watson, "Mister Turner was found in the living room, and Scotland Yard cleared all the evidence, which was hardly anything because it was presumed that he had been killed by a bug bite."

Holmes held up a hand, shushing his colleague. "Hush now, Watson. Your chatter is throwing off my concentration. And it is not as if you are telling me anything I do not know."

"Well I never—! Here I am trying to help—!"

"Watson, the chatter," Holmes cut him off.

With a heavy breath through his nostrils, Watson crossed his arms and turned away. "Sometimes I wonder why I even bother with you."

Holmes continued on despite his furious colleague. "Though the police have 'cleared' this area, I believe there is still evidence to be found. After all, if anyone cannot be trusted completely it is women, journalists, doctors, and policemen."

"Watch it, Holmes…!" Watson warned.

"Ah, I forgot that your humour has been lacking these past few days." A rare smile found its way to Holmes's lips. "Putting aside this childish banter, I would like to explore this flat beyond the murder scene."

"Aside from this room, there is only the bedroom and the bathroom. Why would the murderer go into either those rooms if his target is Mister Turner?"

"Your effort is much appreciated, Watson, but you are not looking at the full picture."

"What do you mean?"

"You say the murder would not go into the bathroom or bedroom because you assume that the murderer found and killed Mister Turner in the living room, which is feasible if the man was killed instantly, which, for the sake of argument, we will assume that it happened so. What you failed to see though, my dear Watson, is that I am here to research the life of Mister Tuner and not his murderer."

"Why on earth would you do that? We're here to solve a murder, not get to know him!"

"Come now, Watson, I know that you are not this dense. The motive of a murderer is just as important as the evidence he leaves behind."

"I suppose…"

Holmes wandered off and opened the door nearest to the kitchen. Similar to the rest of the house, it was neat and tidy, not so much as a stray mustache hair could be seen. With a quick glance around the small room, Holmes saw nothing noteworthy and closed the door. Only one more room left to investigate. The bedroom. Holmes grabbed the knob and jiggled it. Unfortunately it was locked. As if he had done it many times before, Holmes extended his arm to the shelf adjacent to the bedroom door, reached inside a bright red, ceramic vase, which was painted with gold stylistic creatures, and pulled out a worn key.

"Holmes, how on earth—?" Watson began.

"It's quite elementary." Holmes held up the key and looked at it in the light. "Would such an organized and collected man, who orchestrates to the smallest detail in his living room, exhibit a gaudy, red vase such as the one that sits upon this shelf? I think not, my dear Watson. If Mr. Turner had no use for this, he would not have purchased it."

"Then why not purchase one that he likes? Even if he wanted to hide a key, I see no reason to hurry and spend hard earned money on something he is displeased with."

"Of course, Watson, that is because he _was_ in a hurry. He knew someone was coming after him, and he needed somewhere to hide this key to his room, which, itself, hides a secret that if the Yard would have seen, would have harmed Mr. Turner is some way."

"Then why wouldn't he just hide the key somewhere else? Why go through the trouble of buying an obvious hiding spot?"

"I said he was an organized man, Watson, not a smart man. Unless…Watson! Of course! After this, we have our next destination!"

"Have you really thought that far already, Holmes?"

"Of course, now, for the room behind this door." Holmes stuck the old key into the keyhole and twisted it around and around until he heard a _click. _ Without pulling out the key, Holmes opened the door and entered the room. "Watson, we have made an amazing discovery! But what does it all mean?"

The bedroom, very unlike the rest of the flat, was littered with books and documents of all sorts. A pile of books in the corner stacked up to be as tall as Watson, and the bookshelf nearby displayed an array of different artifacts from different countries. Some items looked new. Others looked as if they were older than London herself. Everywhere else, stacks of yellowing paper filled the room. There was also a world map pinned to the wall over a wooden, robust desk. Thin red threads connected a landscape picture to a country. Some of the pictures had been crossed out with heavy black ink.

During the day time there was a lone window to light up the room, but when it became dark out, the only thing to light up the room was a lamp, which had been tossed to the ground. The bulb had shattered.

Though there were many things to look at in the room, Holmes was fixated on one thing, that being the map. He stroked his chin as he carefully ran his eyes over the countries and their respective pictures. "Watson, this has posed more questions than answers. We need more information. I've learned all that I can here at the moment."

"What have you found out so far, Homes?" Watson asked.

"It is quite obvious now that Mister Turner's flat is only as clean as it is because he has never used the other rooms. All the work that needs to be done in his life is done here."

"Work? What kind of work can be done in such a messy environment?"

"The work of a business man." Holmes picked up one of the many slips of paper from the desk. "These sheets of paper are bank receipts. There have been a lot of transactions between many different accounts. There have also been numerous deposits and withdraws. All the ones on his desk are from the past year. Assuming that all the paper we see here is of this nature, I would say that Mister Turner has been in business for twenty or so years."

"But what kind of business are we talking about?"

"International. No doubt in my mind. Though the nature of the business is still unclear to me."

"What should we do now, Holmes?"

Holmes took a picture from the wall. "Grab the vase that was hiding the key. We have a certain business woman to consult about our businessman."

"Zhilan?"

"The very same," Holmes said as he walked out of the room.

Watson followed his partner and grabbed the vase as he was told. He had yet to figure out what Holmes was up to, only that he suspected Zhilan knew something. Watson thought about the young woman again. What could  
Holmes possibly want with her? Did he still think that she had killed Mister Turner? Watson trusted Holmes and his skill, but Zhilan had witnesses, alleged witnesses, but witnesses nonetheless. Unless they were all a part of a conspiracy or a homicidal cult, Zhilan was innocent. As much as Watson trusted Holmes, he held firm to his belief that Holmes would find no evidence proving Zhilan to be the murderer.

The bell to the shop rang as the two gentlemen entered the Blooming Phoenix, but the shop owner was too busy with a customer to notice either of them.

Zhilan was talking to Barnes. Though Barnes was simply a bookseller, he had the physique of a soldier or a police constable, broad shoulders, large hands. He was a young man, in his mid to late twenties who had only recently inherited the bookshop from his father, William Barnes, a few years back. William Barnes was a kind and gentle man. Watson often remembered William giving him books free of charge whenever Holmes needed something for his brain. William would also offer his full help on any of their cases. Of course his son, Leonard was just like him, but appearances are often what people make assumptions on first. Not many people associated with Leonard Barnes, as sad as it may seem. A big, hulking galoot is what he was. He scared away many customers with that great, looming presence of his. The only reason he still had customers was because he owned the only bookshop in town. If another opened up, Barnes would be done for.

"I am really very impressed with you, Barnes." Zhilan leaned on the counter, smiling at the hopeful man. "Apitherapy is not something even I know too much about."

"But do you not find it wonderful?" Barnes said in his deep, gruff voice as he put his hand over hers. "Many, many illnesses could be cured with something as simple as bee venom! It could potentially bring this country's health to a new light."

"Ahh, maybe I should start supplying those products. Hopefully then I can bring my little shop some fortune."

Barnes stared longingly at Zhilan. The lonely old book salesman had undoubtedly fallen for the girl. "But surely a beautiful woman like you can attract some customers."

Zhilan pulled her hand away abruptly. "What is _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Zhilan," Holmes spoke up, "what poor, old, lovelorn Barnes means to say is that, much like himself, people from all around would come to bask in your beauty. The last thing he wants to do is insult you. He may not be the sharpest of men, but his intentions are well put."

Barnes put his hand over his heart and shook his head, almost afraid to speak another word, in fear of further insulting the already insulted Zhilan. "I-I assuredly didn't mean to imply that you were a…woman of low moral standards…"

Holmes strode up to the counter and sat down in the stool next to Barnes. "I am very sorry to have to interrupt this lovely drama, but I have more important things to inquire than whether not the two will be together in the distant future or dally on if one of you has a malevolent twin that will soon show its face and ruin your lives."

Zhilan's eyes narrowed as she let out a giggle. "If Barnes and I are drama, then you are most certainly satire, Mister Holmes."

"Ah, so you know who I am."

"The last time you were here, you stated the name of your colleague, Mister John Watson, as we pattered on about malaria, a topic you really did not need to know about, but one that I humored you on anyway. I talked to Barnes about two men, detectives possibly, and one by the name of Watson. Since Barnes has no reason to lie to me, I assumed what he said was the truth. Was I wrong to trust him?"

"Bravo." Holmes clapped, impressed, but not astonished at her process. "Now that you know who I am, are you opposed to answering my questions?"

Zhilan turned her body away from Barnes and gave her full attention to Holmes. "No, in fact, I think answering your questions is going to be a little more fun than answering those of the police. Barnes thinks very highly of you. I would much like to see what it is inside you that makes you tick."

Barnes looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to figure out if he had just lost his chance with the woman he loved in a matter of seconds or if Zhilan was being friendly. Watson had to reassure him that Holmes had no interest in the female gender, or people in general. He only found the human species to be intriguing, but he felt nothing for them other than pity. Watson knew how much Holmes saw his clients and their problems. They were just a little puzzle for him to solve to pass the time and nothing more.

"Watson, the vase." Holmes held out his hand, gesturing, with his fingers, for Watson to show it.

"Ah, of course!" Watson nodded and placed the red vase on the counter in front of Zhilan.

"Oh," she exclaimed in surprise, obviously recognizing the piece of ceramic-work. "You were right to bring it to me, though I doubt with you that it was a coincidence. This vase is from my shop. In my opinion, the piece is very poorly made. The vase itself is fine, but I could have put a little more care into painting the dragon on the side."

"You made this pottery?" Holmes inquired.

"Sadly to say, I did."

"Do you remember who you sold it to?"

"Yes, I sold it to Mister Turner."

"I recall that your memory is not the best, but I still wish to ask you if you remember the day when Mister Turner bought this vase from you."

"In this case, I do remember. Mister Turner came into the shop in quite a frenzy, you see. He was sweating and panting as if he had been running for days."

"Judging from the physical shape Mister Turner was in, it could have been that he simply began his sprint from his flat."

"In respect for the dead, I probably shouldn't laugh at that, but you are more than likely correct. He came in and asked if I had a container of some sort. I had nigh time to answer before he saw that vase sitting out on the counter. At the time, I used it to hold—"

"Cigar ash?" Holmes answered before her.

"Ah, yes," Zhilan replied in surprise. "You must have seen the mess he left on the floor the first day you came here. He rudely dumped out the contents onto the floor and threw the money at me before running away. It took me just until a few days ago to clean it up."

"When did this all happen?"

"The incident with Mister Turner happened…" Zhilan trailed off and paused in thought. "It happened a day or two before he died."

Holmes nodded slowly as he took in the information and pieced it all together, bit by bit. He slowly nodded, the puzzle in his head coming together beautifully. "Zhilan," Holmes said as he came out of his trance, "do you know this place?" He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the picture from Mister Turner's place.

Taking into her hands, Zhilan examined it. "This is my hometown in China. What are you doing with this picture?"

"This picture was found, along with many other of its ilk, in Mister Turner's bedroom converted to study."

"What is he doing with it?"

"As you see, the image has been crossed out. In Mister Turner's study, there are bank receipts for numerous transactions. Many of them are for more than a million pounds. I believe that he was selling land all over the world, and this land," he pointed to the picture, "has been sold. Judging by the picture and the fading ink, it was sold about twenty years ago."

"Wrong, Mister Holmes," Zhilan said sternly, nearly snapping at him. Her brows were furrowed, her eyes burned intensely, and her hands shook. "This plot of land," she spat, "was _destroyed_ twenty years ago, not sold."


End file.
